


A Late Night Tryst

by EnduringParadox



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Pre-Canon or AU where Geraldus never ruined everyone's lives, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28009821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: A man probably wouldn’t starve to death in the time that’s passed between his and the Mute’s private moments but Diarmuid hungers for the sensation of the man’s lips against his, the rough scratch of his beard on his neck and thighs...-------It's been busy at the monastery and Diarmuid and the Mute haven't had a chance to be alone in a while. They arrange to see each other after the last prayers of the day.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	A Late Night Tryst

**Author's Note:**

> This might look familiar to some people on the Discord; I posted it there first a month or so ago but I've given it a reread and a bit of an edit, so here it is on AO3!

Once Compline ends, the monks are to go back to their clochán and sleep. They will wake later, hours before dawn, when the sun is still hidden but the night is dissipating like fog.

In between that time there is to be nothing but rest. Diarmuid listens and waits for familiar footsteps pacing around dirt floors and soft, murmured prayers to turn into the shift of weight on a straw filled mattress and the rustle of linen blankets and even more familiar snores.

It’s taking far too long.

Diarmuid suppresses a groan of frustration. Autumn’s arrival has brought a pleasant chill to the air, brought the leaves—turned yellow and red and orange—to the ground so that the well-worn forest paths appear to be lit by fire. And it’s brought a rush of activity to the monastery as the monks prepare for the coming winter. Jugs of aged milk set to become cheese. Apples picked from the orchard, carefully gathered together in barrels in the kitchen. The trees and grass sifted through for mast—hazelnuts for the brothers and acorns and beechnuts for the pigs. Seaweed collected and dried for soups and savory porridge. And, of course, razor clams, always ready to be harvested with a bit of salted water in the sand where they’ve burrowed.

They’ve been so busy—the few times Diarmuid’s worked next to the Mute in the past coupe of weeks he hasn’t even gotten a chance to talk to him, let alone—let alone _touch_ him, and be touched in return.

His face grows hot with both irritation and embarrassment. A man probably wouldn’t starve to death in the time that’s passed between his and the Mute’s private moments but Diarmuid hungers for the sensation of the man’s lips against his, the rough scratch of his beard on his neck and thighs, the calluses on the pads of his fingers brushing against his cheek, his chest, between his legs. He craves the low, desperate moans that escape from his lover’s lips when they rock together, when Diarmuid holds him tight and sighs with complete and utter bliss at the feeling on being _full_. His companion is silent at all times, it seems, except for their lovemaking, when Diarmuid draws out his pants and gasps and groans with deft fingers and careful rolls of his hips and his own noises of satisfaction.

Diarmuid likes that—that he has that ability to elicit such sounds from the Mute with his touches both gentle and firm, with words whispered into his ear and cried to the Heavens. And he loves the satisfied, reverent expression on the Mute’s face after Diarmuid’s spilled into his hand, on his chest and stomach, the sheets, as if it’s as gratifying for him to bring Diarmuid pleasure as it is for Diarmuid to pleasure him.

The thought has him half-hard under his robes already, but he refrains from touching himself. He wants the Mute, and only the Mute, and he daren’t make a single noise or movement until he is certain that the rest of the monks are in deep sleep.

Earlier in the day Diarmuid had managed to speak to the Mute as he was in the middle of chopping firewood and hauling it to the monastery’s storehouse. He approached under the guise of apprehending a rogue chicken that had somehow, inexplicably, escaped from the pen.

The older man spied him chasing after the chicken, smiled briefly, and swung the axe into the stump. The action seemed to startle the hen, which gave a squawk and skidded to a stop in the grass. The Mute grabbed and handed the squirming bird to Diarmuid, who took it with a heartfelt thanks and then added, quietly, “I’d like to visit you tonight.”

The Mute’s eyes had widened. He looked back at the monks, milling about the monastery, engrossed in their daily chores, and then back to Diarmuid, his face slightly flushed. He nodded.

Diarmuid happily replied, “After Compline, then. Wait for me.”

After another nod he’d scurried back to the monastery, smiling broadly, hen in his arms, awaiting the cool dark and starry night sky and his lover’s arms, pulling him close.

* * *

How long will the Mute wait? Diarmuid wonders. It’s already been nearly an hour. The candlelight in the other clocháns have long since dimmed and been blown out and the other monks ought to be in bed and sleeping by now.

But, then, so should Diarmuid.

With a huff, he quickly pulls off his boots and gently sets them on the floor. He sits up and, after an anxious glance to the entrance of the clochán, slips off his braies, sets them on the bed, and pulls his robes back down.

The Mute enjoys undressing him, but Diarmuid doesn’t want to wait. Not tonight. Not after _weeks_ of nothing, not even a surreptitious brush of their fingertips as they walked past one another, let alone their usual stolen time together in the forest.

Diarmuid steels himself. He peeks around the entryway to the clochán, eyes adjusting to the dark of the night, and tiptoes down the path to the Mute’s dwelling on bare feet.

He creeps quietly onto the soft grass, holding his breath as he passes by the other monks’ stone huts, listening carefully for a hitch in their snores. If he is caught, he’ll simply say he was having trouble sleeping and was trying to clear his mind with a walk—but then he’ll be sent back to his clochán and it’ll be yet another long day without his lover’s touch.

The Mute is a lay brother, not a monk; his dwelling is set further away from the monastery, isolated even in isolation. When it finally comes into view as Diarmuid clambers down a hill he sees that it is lit still, shining like a faraway star.

_He’s waiting, still_ , Diarmuid thinks, smiling, _he’s waiting for me_.

Gathering a bit of his robes in one hand to move more freely, Diarmuid darts toward the clochán. He doesn’t bother announcing his presence—he just rushes in, shivering from both the chill in the air and anticipation. The Mute, he finds, has had a similar idea about clothing; he lays shirtless on the bed, staring at the ceiling, one hand behind his head and the other resting on his stomach.

A low, startled noise, something between a shout and a growl, escapes the Mute’s throat. He sits up on his elbows, teeth bared, muscles tense—the sight makes Diarmuid blush and grow hotter, for some reason—but when he realizes that it’s Diarmuid in the entryway his expression turns sheepish and then softens into a smile.

“I’m here,” Diarmuid says, breathlessly.

The Mute spreads his arms wide and Diarmuid practically launches himself into his welcoming embrace. His lover falls back onto the bed and rolls them over, clambering on top of Diarmuid as he peppers his face with kisses. It makes him laugh in delight, to have the Mute covering him once more, holding him close, like he’s something to be protected and cherished. To feel his lips as they brush against his skin, down his cheek to his neck to his shoulder, his kisses growing more desperate, wetter and hotter, by the second.

Diarmuid murmurs, “I missed you. Did you miss me?” In response the Mute’s grin widens into something almost predatory and he surges forward to capture Diarmuid’s lips, prying them open with his tongue to lick inside his mouth. The first time the Mute had ever kissed him like that was during a frantic, exhilarating session in the forest. They hadn’t even gotten undressed; the Mute had just pressed him into the ground, rubbing his clothed erection against Diarmuid’s robes as he explored Diarmuid’s lips and teeth and tongue with his own mouth. The noises he’d made then—something desperate, and animal like—had made Diarmuid so hot and tight in his braies that he’d come with the Mute still rutting against him, sucking on his tongue and swallowing his cries.

Both the memory and the Mute’s vigorous kisses has him fully aroused now. His lover notices; he pulls back, looking pleased, and slips his hands underneath Diarmuid’s robes to take off his braies. His dark eyes widen when all he touches are Diarmuid’s bare hips. He makes a noise of disbelief and rucks up the rough material, groaning when he sees that Diarmuid’s wearing nothing beneath them.

His pupils are blown black. They’ve done nothing at all yet, really, but the Mute is breathing heavily as though they’ve already begun in earnest. His gaze is nothing short of ravenous and it makes Diarmuid blush and turn away, feeling suddenly very shy. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the Mute watching him, brows furrowed in concern.

Before his lover gets it into his head that Diarmuid’s apprehensive instead of slightly bashful at the way he stares at him as if he could live solely off of _Diarmuid_ rather than food and water, he says, “I missed you. I didn’t want to wait—for you to take them off, I mean. I know you like to, but—“ He bites his lip. “I just want you to touch me. Please? I’ve been _miserable_. I can’t stand it when you’re near and I can’t talk to you, or kiss you, or hold you. I want your hands on me. Touching myself isn’t the same. I _need_ you inside me.”

He turns back to the Mute and finds the older man staring down at him with a wide-eyed, intense expression. He’s stock-still. It’s almost alarming.

“Mo ghrá—?” Diarmuid asks. The Mute suddenly rushes from the bed and to the wooden chest in the corner of his dwelling. He throws open the lid and sifts through it, tossing out unneeded items. An extra tunic flutters to the ground. A small bundle of beeswax candles scatter across the floor. A chunk of wood for whittling clatters against the stone wall.

Finally, the Mute makes a triumphant noise and holds aloft a very familiar jar of oil. Diarmuid sighs and squirms out of his robes. He lets the clothing fall over the side of the bed. It’s a chilly autumn night but his skin is hot with desire. “Please?” he asks again. “Please, I want you _so badly_ , I want to feel you, _please_ —“ His voice pitches to a whine—unbecoming, surely—but to his surprise the Mute carefully sets the jar aside and then shucks off his breeches, already stained with his arousal. They’re thrown onto the floor in a graceless pile.

His cock’s thick and swollen and hard and flushed red and when the Mute gives himself a few quick strokes precum leaks from the tip.

Diarmuid needs it stretching him open, filling him up. He slides a hand down his stomach and over his own erect cock to his entrance. He gently presses two fingers there. “It isn’t the same without you,” he says, truthfully, “Even when I thought about you taking me—it wasn’t enough.”

His mind couldn’t quite conjure the Mute’s weight on top of him, the scent of his sweat, the sounds his lover made as he frantically thrust into him. The hot puff of his breath against Diarmuid’s neck as he panted and grunted and growled, the continuous low moan that emitted from his throat when he was close—and the slap of his skin against Diarmuid’s as he _rutted_ to completion.

The real man is gazing at him once more as though it’s _Diarmuid_ who created the Earth and the sky and the stars. The jar is opened and the Mute’s fingers slip into the vessel. They come out coated in oil. Diarmuid watches as drops of it drip down his lover’s rough, callused palm and along his wrist.

He lifts his hips up. A plea for the Mute to give him pleasure, and an invitation for the man to take what is his.

A kiss is pressed to his lips, his neck—the Mute licks and sucks at his pulse, his tongue leaving a trail of hot spit on Diarmuid’s skin that’s quickly cooled in the autumn air. He shivers at the chill, whimpers at the loss when the Mute pulls back, and then grasps at the blanket and cries out as a well-oiled finger carefully presses inside of him. “ _Ah!_ ”

He rolls his eyes to the ceiling, lashes fluttering. The Mute’s other hand caresses his hip as he draws his finger in and out with a steady rhythm. When he slips the second inside Diarmuid lets out a breathless laugh. This is what he wanted—to be touched like this—he’s waited so long, he’s so aroused it almost _hurts_ and—

“T-that’s fine. You can start now,” Diarmuid says. He glances down just as the Mute begins to scissors his fingers inside him. His cock twitches, pink and leaking. “Please?”

But while his lover is flushed all over and just as hard between his legs, he only smiles fondly and shakes his head. It’s the one thing the Mute denies him: he never enters Diarmuid before he feels that the younger man is thoroughly prepared, no matter how much Diarmuid begs.

_It was worth an attempt_ , Diarmuid thinks as he falls back onto the pillow. He frowns at the ceiling, spreading his legs wider to better accommodate the Mute’s slick fingers. His pout disappears when the third enters him, stretching him further. He shifts on the bed, wriggles closer to the Mute’s fingertips rubbing against his inner walls. He moans, “Yes, I need you, please, please, _please_ —“

When the Mute slowly removes his fingers Diarmuid whimpers and clenches down, trying to keep them inside him where they ought to be. His lover makes a strangled sound. Diarmuid focuses his gaze and sees the Mute thrusting into his fist as he coats his cock with oil. His face is dark with arousal. Sweat beads along his broad shoulders, his flushed, scarred chest.

Diarmuid cants his hips up. He calls, “Mo ghrá,” and the Mute moans. The bed creaks with their combined weight as the older man clambers back on, pressing eager, wet, open-mouthed kisses to along Diarmuid’s face and neck. Then he shifts and Diarmuid cries out as the Mute’s cock enters him.

No matter how many times they do this, the Mute always feels so amazingly _large_ , so long and thick and stretching him wonderfully, filling him up. Diarmuid wraps his legs around the Mute’s waist, whimpering once more.

A sharp snap of the hips and the Mute’s fully inside him. His lover rests on top of Diarmuid’s chest, panting, eyes glazed, his hands on either side of Diarmuid’s head, resting on his elbows. Diarmuid gently strokes his back.

He whispers into the Mute’s ear. “Did you miss me, too? I missed your cock in me. I missed making you feel good.” Diarmuid sighs in pleasure as the Mute nips at his neck, groaning, and rolls his hips to finally, _finally_ fuck Diarmuid like he wanted. There’s weeks’ worth of loneliness and desire in every one of the Mute’s hard thrusts, their stifled affection released with every desperate kiss, every high cry and ragged moan. Diarmuid thought he would suffocate with all the words he kept to himself—he tells them to the Mute now, breathless babbling in between sharp, stuttered gasps.

“I— _oh_ —I love you. I missed you. I need to hear you, I— _ah!_ I love the noises you make—I don’t care where we are, I just need you with me, _in me_ —“

The Mute bares his teeth against Diarmuid’s throat. There’s the growl, the one that Diarmuid missed so much, the one that tells him that his lover is enjoying himself, that he feels good, that Diarmuid is making him feel good—

He squeezes his legs around the Mute’s waist, tightening his lower body, and the Mute’s sounds turn positively bestial. His pace increases. The slap of their skin, wet with oil, accompanies Diarmuid’s gasps and the Mute’s growls. The clochán is filled with the sound of their lovemaking.

It just feels so good—Diarmuid doesn’t want it to end. There’s no loveliness in autumn without his lover’s lips on his, without his hands roving his body, without him hot and dripping sweat over top of him, moaning like a dying man as he pumps into Diarmuid. Maybe the following days will be kinder to them—maybe they’ll be allowed to forage together, or fish, or repair something, but if not—

“Harder?” he pleads. “If—if I can’t have you all the time, then I want to feel you for _days_ —“ Something to tide him over until their next stolen night together. He wants to _ache_ with how hard and fast and _deep_ the Mute thrusts into him.

Then Mute’s cock hits that spot within him—the one that makes him scrabble at his lover’s back, the one that makes him _scream_ and _cry_ with pleasure—again and again and again. “Oh! _Oh_! I’m—I—oh, _a Dhia_ , mo ghrá! A Dhia!” Diarmuid wails. “Mo ghrá! Please—” Another urgent kiss is pressed to his wet, parted lips, and then Diarmuid’s vision goes white as he comes, sobbing and gasping as the Mute continues to take his own pleasure, fucking him in earnest.

He’s still coming in between their stomachs when the Mute tenses and gives one long, low moan and spills inside him. His spend is so deliciously, wonderfully hot. Diarmuid holds him tight as they ride out their climaxes, his nails digging into the Mute’s back.

“Mo ghrá thú,” he murmurs. The Mute, flushed red and sweating in the chilly autumn air, looks at him with such softness, such adoration, and brushes Diarmuid’s damp curls aside to press a path of gentle kisses along his face. He repeats, “I love you,” and the Mute takes his hand and holds it to his chest. Diarmuid can feel his heart beating.

They share smiles. Diarmuid shimmies to one side of the bed so that the Mute can curl beside him.

He nestles against the Mute’s chest with a sigh of contentment. In a few more hours he’ll join the monks for Lauds. Diarmuid will stand in the church with the sensation of his lover between his legs, recite prayers with the taste of him on his lips, and the day will begin anew.

**Author's Note:**

> Irish translations (hopefully a little more accurate after some research):
> 
> Mo ghrá - My love
> 
> A Dhia - God
> 
> Mo ghrá thú - I love you.


End file.
